Goodnight Kisses
by JustlikeWater
Summary: In which Sherlock can't sleep, so neither can John. Fluff/Romance/Humor


**A/N: I couldn't sleep one night so I wrote this and refused to let John sleep either ;D **

**Enjoy!**

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><p>After two endlessly eventful years of living on Baker Street, John Watson prided himself on his ability to unerringly acclimatize to whatever mad situation Sherlock threw his way, whether it was an impromptu chase or an unexpected sulfuric explosion. Instead of dissolving into panic or waving a white flag and running for the hills, John utilized his vast reserves of patience and dealt with the matter accordingly, as unruffled and calm as anything, because he had long since developed nerves of steel—one <em>had<em> to when living with a man like Sherlock—and nothing the detective did or said surprised him any longer. John took all of it in stride and hardly batted an eye.

But, of course, Sherlock just _had_ to put all of that patience to a test by materializing in his doorway one night, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs and an innocuous expression.

Initially, John thought it was a dream and blearily accepted that he and his flat mate were going to (yet again) partake in some imaginary sexcapades—unfortunately his unconscious mind was particularly fond of lanky, dark haired detectives in compromising positions—but then Sherlock spoke in that laconic, dry way of his and completely shattered any notion of steamy fantasies.

"You've been staring at me for a full minute now and since I assume your silence is not an indication that you've gone suddenly mute, I will take it as invitation to come into your room."

John sat up straight, drowsiness gone in an instant. Alright, so this _was_ real, then. Sherlock Holmes was actually standing five feet from his bed wearing nothing but pants. John swallowed hard and practically gritted the words out, "Where. Are. Your. Clothes."

"I sleep nude," Sherlock stated breezily, as if he were mentioning which brand of milk he preferred. "I didn't think you'd be comfortable with me confronting you sans clothing, however, so I put these on." He innocently cocked his head. "Problem?"

"Yes, there's a bloody problem!" John sputtered. "You're practically naked!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John, you're overreacting. They're just pants."

"Right! _Just_ pants. As in, you're currently standing in my room at three in the bloody morning wearing _just pants_."

Sherlock stretched his arms over his head and yawned, apparently untroubled by his flat mate's steadily increasing volume and blood pressure. After a beat of contemplation, he regarded John in what he probably thought was a compromising tone. "Listen, if pants are that traumatizing for you, I could just remove them all together—"

John hastily replied, "_No_, that's quite alright, please keep them on," which thankfully reached Sherlock's ears in time for him to unhook his thumbs from the waistband of his shorts and abort the act of shucking his boxers right then and there (because he seemed unsettlingly ready to do so).

"So then it's not the pants you have an issue with," Sherlock clarified, placing his hands on the sharp juts of his hipbones, head titled slightly to the side in questioning. John made a point of looking Sherlock in the eye instead of letting his gaze wander along the pale stretch of taut abdomen, willowy torso, and lean muscle that lurked temptingly below the detective's collarbones. _Bad things happen when eyes linger, Watson,_ he told himself.

"No. And it's not the bloody material or style of your shorts either, if that's what you were about to ask next, Sherlock."

"Really?"

"No."

"Excellent!" Sherlock flashed a smile and clasped his hands together. "Glad we solved that. Now budge over, will you? I'd like to get in."

John rubbed a hand down his face and asked the ceiling (or whatever cruel deity was listening in), "Am I mad for questioning this? Am I just behind the times? Is it suddenly normal for one's roommate to pop in half naked at ungodly hours and just—Sherlock, what do you think you're doing?"

"Getting into bed. I thought that was fairly obvious, John. I know your brain does not function at full capacity at this hour, but even you ought to be able to comprehend what—"

"So you're sleeping in here then." It was more of a statement than anything. John didn't even bother phrasing it as a question and Sherlock didn't even bother answering. Instead, the detective nestled himself under the covers and wrestled with the sheets until ninety percent of them were bunched around his body, leaving John with a meager scrap of material to fend with.

"Buggering hell—_why_ must you take all the blankets?"

"I'm cold," Sherlock pronounced, pulling the sheets tighter around his shoulders. He looked like a giant burrito with a face.

"Yeah, well that doesn't give you the right to—AH! Your feet are bloody freezing!"

"I told you, John, _I'm cold_. That's why I'm putting them over there, you're warm."

"Well good for you, but now it feels like I have two icicles on my shin."

"Mm. I, on the contrary, enjoy this position very much."

"Yes I know you do, you git, you're using me as your own personal furnace."

Sherlock simply hummed in acknowledgement and wiggled his _subzero_ toes against John's calf. Snappishly, John asked, "Why are you in here anyway?"

"I woke up after having a strange dream—which in itself is odd since I hardly ever dream, let alone vividly enough to rouse myself. After several fruitless minutes, I found I couldn't go back to sleep, so I tried to compose but the music wouldn't come to me, so then I flipped through the file of unsolved cases Lestrade dropped by last weekend but none of the crimes ranked higher than a measly five. That's when I decided that I'd come in here with you.

"Why, so you can keep me awake with you?" John asked, still somewhat cranky from being woken at arse o' clock in the morning.

"No. I have a tendency to sleep better when you are in my near vicinity, and since you are always stressing the importance of rest I figured you'd assist me in my pursuit of sleep."

John sighed in submission. Sherlock had a point, John _was _always nagging him about getting a proper eight hours. Besides, it wasn't as if having six feet of lanky, half naked detective at his side was a terrible hardship.

"Fine, alright. I'm going to turn off the light now. Do you snore?"

Sherlock scoffed, as if the mere suggestion of him possessing an involuntary bodily function was offensive. "No, of course not."

"Good. Sleep tight, then."

"Well I'm not sure how I'd sleep_ loosely_, but alright, thanks all the same."

"It's a saying th—you know what, never mind. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John."

…

As it turned out, Sherlock did something much worse than snoring.

He _talked._

(And talked and talked and talked).

It wasn't about anything particular, either, it was just an endless stream of mumbled numbers and words spoken in some the same low, monotonous tone without a second of breath in between. At first he thought maybe Sherlock was talking in his sleep, but then he flipped on his side and realized that Sherlock was wide awake.

And also staring at him quite intensely.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing" he hissed.

Sherlock hardly blinked. "Cataloguing."

"Care to elaborate?"

Instead of replying, Sherlock flopped onto his back and continued his low buzz of speech, which John could now tell pertained to him judging by how often his name came up.

"Sherlock."

The detective did not exit his reverie.

"Sherlock Holmes."

More muttering, no sign that he'd heard John.

"Detective Prick. Master of irritation. _Sir Mumbles a Lot."_

This continued on for some time, until John finally his teeth and sat up in a huff, the sheets billowing up with him like a parachute. "Alright, that's quite enough. Sherlock, I know you don't care much for sleep, but I have work tomorrow and I can't afford to stay up all night while you mumble to yourself. Kindly _shut up_."

At that, Sherlock's stream of musings immediately broke off and he turned on his side to face John. John listened to the sheets rustle and stared straight ahead at the wall, refusing to meet the inquisitive, grey-blue eyes that were undoubtedly boring holes into his profile. Sherlock's voice sounded surprisingly contrite when he finally spoke. "Apologies John. It's just…I…"

John stole a glance at the detective's pale, moonlit face and felt slightly guilty at the frown that marred his expression. John was on the brink of apologizing and resolving to just cover his ears with a pillow, when Sherlock spoke again, this time sounding much more confident.

"It's just that this is very…interesting. And somewhat exciting. I've never shared a bed with anyone before, you see," Sherlock curled his toes under the blankets and gave a small shiver of delight, "I rather like it."

Medical knowledge be damned, John wondered if it was possibly for one's heart to actually melt from endearment. He bit back the smile that was tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've never slept next to someone before?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No."

"Why not?"

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and dryly replied, "Do I seem like the type who flourishes in social situations? Especially intimate ones?"

"Oh, I don't know. You're not too bad," John shrugged. "In fact, I'm finding you very tolerable at the moment."

"Tolerable?" Sherlock laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest. "That's quite impressive. I must say, I am honored to be tolerated by you, John."

John smiled at the ceiling. "As you should be."

A few moments passed in comfortable silence. After a while, John broke it with a question. "Out of curiosity, what were you mumbling?"

"Oh, just information. You know, little minutia I didn't want to forget."

"Like?"

Sherlock thought about his answer for a minute. "Well, the rate of your breathing, for one. The exact scent of this room and the specific layers of smell that are in the sheets as opposed to the air as opposed to pillows. The organization of your furniture. Your preferred sleeping positon. The surprisingly pleasurable sensation of lying close to another person. Things like that."

"Well…no need to memorize things so precisely. Who says this needs to be a one-time thing? You can, er, pop in whenever you can't sleep. I don't mind."

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. "Really?"

"Yeah, of course," John assured. "As long as you quit that mumbling thing, you're fine."

"Well I'm glad you're amenable," Sherlock replied, sounding unaccountably pleased with himself.

"Yes. Now go to sleep for real this time, alright? I wasn't kidding about needing to rest for work tomorrow."

"Fine, fine, Goodnight, John."

…

Twenty minutes was all it took for the next interruption. This time, Sherlock preceded his outburst by noisily wriggling around in the sheets and making small sounds of discontentment for ten agonizing minutes. It was so annoying and passive aggressive that it was almost a relief when the detective finally spoke.

"John, I'm having issues over here."

John wearily made terms with the fact that he probably wasn't going to get that lovely eight hours he'd been shooting for. At this rate, he'd be lucky to snag five.

"With what, Sherlock?"

"Well, you see, I think I ought to come closer to you. I know you said to stay over here but it's too cold on this side of the bed."

John hummed in mock sympathy. "Well, perhaps it's because you're wearing just your shorts, Sherlock. Not the wisest choice for a winter night, I must say."

"John," Sherlock pleaded.

"No. That's what you get for stealing all the sheets."

"But, John, there's a draft." At John's silence, Sherlock tried again. "A freezing draft—nay, _all of winter's wind combined into one concentrated gale_. I can feel the hypothermia setting in, John, I think my fingers and toes will be the first to go, which is a shame because I am a musician and I need my fingers to play, and I also just purchased some very expensive Italian shoes that will certainly fit improperly if I am lacking ten fully functioning toes—"

"_Christ almighty,_ if I say yes will you hush up?"

"I'm too cold at the moment to answer that coherently, but I have a large suspicion that the answer is yes."

John sighed long-sufferingly and threw a forearm over his eyes. "Fine, then get your scrawny arse over here."

Sherlock complied, but scowled the whole way over, apparently offended by John's adjective of choice. "I'll have you know my arse is not scrawny, John. It's perfectly proportionate to the rest of my body."

"Yes, yes, I'm well aware, I've seen it."

"Hm. So you've been looking then?" John opened his eyes and saw that Sherlock was smirking.

"_No_ I haven't been bloody checking you out. But when you parade around the flat in just a sheet it's hard not to notice, alright?"

"Whatever you say, John." Sherlock sang, raising a knowing brow. John briefly contemplated chinning him, but decided that the scant five inches between them didn't provide an optimum punching angle and let it go.

"There, now you're not as cold, so good. Bloody. Night."

Chipper as anything, Sherlock wished him goodnight in return and disappeared into his cocoon of blankets.

…

It took only ten minutes for Sherlock to grow bored of 'falling asleep' once again.

"John."

"_What_, Sherlock?"

"I'm still having difficulty sleeping, so perhaps I could come even closer? I'm certain that would help."

"Sherlock…"

"John, please. I can't sleep, and when I can't sleep I deduce, I think, I mumble, I fidget—all those annoying bedtime habits that you detest so dearly. Don't you think if there's a way to circumvent those things we should do it?"

John was so tired that Sherlock could've suggested he put on a Pope hat and dance a jig and he would've complied, as long as it meant finally getting some bloody shut-eye. _"Fine."_

The word was scarcely off his tongue before Sherlock was scooting himself right up next to John and wriggling against his side like an insistent worm. He fidgeted about for a long time, apparently searching for a comfortable position, and John, being the patient man that he was, simply lay there with a calm expression and waited for the detective to stop squirming.

"Good?" John asked tersely, once Sherlock had stilled.

"Quite."

The man's dark head was pressed into the juncture of his shoulder, his nose grazing John's collarbone, with one hand thrown possessively over John's waist like a seatbelt. John didn't even bother trying to move and adjust himself because Sherlock had also taken the liberty of intertwining their legs like vines. Essentially, John's body was locked in place by the detective's bony ankles and shackle-like grip.

"You're like an octopus, you know that?"

"I don't understand that comment and I'm far too comfortable to question it further."

"I'm saying that you're clinging to me quite intensely."

"I am," Sherlock agreed. He sighed in contentment and buried his face deeper into John's shoulder. "Your neck smells delightful, John. Like warm skin, laundry soap, and cinnamon."

John frowned at that, absently dragging his hand through Sherlock's curls. His hair was surprisingly soft. "Cinnamon? I promise you, none of the products I use contain cinnamon but perhaps that's—Oh!" He started when he felt Sherlock press his lips to the corner of his jaw.

Sherlock pulled his head away and crooked an eyebrow, as if to ask _yes can I help you?_ John simply blinked at him. "Did you just—kiss me?"

"Yes. Well, your jaw anyway. It looked rather nice and it was within acceptable distance of my mouth."

"Right—okay, no. You can't just go around kissing people, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not 'going around' and I certainly don't kiss 'people'. I stayed right here and I kissed_ you_. And if your pulse is anything to judge by, you didn't mind it."

John cleared his throat and tried to look indignant, but it was rather hard since Sherlock had a point—he hadn't minded it. "Doesn't matter. You have to ask permission for those things. Why did you kiss me anyhow?"

"Well, I've heard a goodnight kiss is sometimes an effective soporific. I decided to try it out."

"Yes, it can be I suppose, but it's more of a nighttime ritual than an actual sleeping aid. Besides, even if it did work, no one gives goodnight kisses on the _jaw."_

Sherlock immediately scowled, offended that John was insinuating he'd been incorrect in his execution. "Then where_ does_ one get a goodnight kiss, John?"

"Well for children, it's usually on the forehead." John propped himself on his elbow and pecked Sherlock's forehead in demonstration. Sherlock crinkled his nose in distaste.

"I am not a child, John, and neither are you. That was ineffective."

"Fine. Well for family members it can be on the cheek." He gripped Sherlock's chin and turned his head, planting a firm kiss on his cheek.

"We are not related either, John," Sherlock pointed out. "That isn't going to work."

"Well, I'm just walking you through all of them in case you ever, er, need to use them in the future."

Sherlock scoffed. "Right. Well I'll hardly be wishing a child goodnight anytime soon and I'd never put my face in any near proximity of Mycroft, so both methods are useless. Next!"

"Alright, alright, calm down, the next one is for a partner—"

"Excellent!" Sherlock declared. "We're partners, so that works out swimmingly. Show me how to do that one."

"I actually meant romantic partners." John cleared his throat. "And for those people it's a kiss on the lips." In contrast to the previous times, he made no move to kiss Sherlock.

"Well?" Sherlock said expectantly. "Where's my demonstration?"

"I'm _not _going to-"

"I don't know about you, John, but I'd rather like to get sleep sometime soon and since this method appears to have a positive effect on others I assume it will help me in my pursuit for sleep as well, but of course if you'd rather stay up all night with me and listen while I list off my favorite alloy metals on the periodic table-in alphabetical order—then by all means don't demonstrate and continue to sit there like a statue, because that means you'll also have the privilege of hearing a recap of my latest lab report on the rate of decay in fetal pigs—"

"Christ, just shut up and come here, already!" John exclaimed, throwing himself on top of the detective and sealing their mouths together. The kiss was originally supposed to make Sherlock stop talking, but as soon as their lips, met sexual frustration and tension exploded in his brain like brightly lit fireworks. Upon making contact, It took him one second to relish the blessed silence, two to recognize that he was indeed kissing Sherlock Holmes, and three for Sherlock's tongue to swipe over his bottom lip and effectively short-circuit his brain, so that time was no longer a concept worth comprehending.

"Perhaps—mm—we can keep at this for a bit?" Sherlock suggested, sucking at John's neck like some kind of wanton vampire. Words were a bit beyond John at the moment, so instead of replying he tugged his t shirt off in one motion—while still straddling the detective's hips—and dove at Sherlock's mouth like a starving man tasting bread for the first time in decades.

"You know what, Sherlock?" he asked in between kisses.

"Mm?"

John grinned devilishly against his swollen lips. "I think this is a really—ahh—really—_Christ_—good night after all."

…

The next morning, John felt like the cat that got the canary—which was to say, immeasurably pleased. Only, John had gotten something much better than a canary; _his_ prize was currently sleeping a few inches to his right, completely starkers in all of his willowy, pale glory.

_Thank the good lord for quickly-removable underwear_, John thought to himself, fondly thinking back on the shorts that may or may not have left Sherlock's body in record-breaking time last night.

As Sherlock continued dozing, John folded his arms behind his head and grinned lazily at the ceiling, cheerfully wondering if he ought to get those black pants framed or bronzed.

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you guys enjoyed it! I certainly had fun writing this :) Feedback would mean the world, so as usual feel free to leave any thoughts/ideas you have on the story!**

**Thanks for reading, guys!**

**Until next time, darlings X0X0**


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